The Unreported Side Effects of Grape Soda
by fourleggedfish
Summary: By request, the missing scene from episode 6:07 "Known Unknowns," picking up right after Wilson face-plants the table. Could be pre-slash if you're wearing your goggles, or strong friendship with dopey-drugged!Wilson if you're not. Enjoy!


**Title: The Unreported Side Effects of Grape Soda**

**Word count: **3,300

**Rating: **PG-13, pre-slash if you're wearing slash goggles, but it could pass for close friendship/really-out-of-it-on-drugs!Wilson if you're not.

**Summary: **Missing scene from Episode 6:07 - "Known Unknowns." After House drugs Wilson's grape soda.

**Dedicated to:** PocketxFullxOfxDreams, who requested a fic about the logistics of House getting Wilson's pants off. :) I hope you like it! And I might even end up writing a (much smuttier/slashier) sequel.

* * *

"Words can hurt, you know." House tipped his head to one side, half expecting Wilson to wake up again, or at least stir a bit and grumble. Nothing.

Under normal circumstances, House might smirk over having pulled one over on Wilson _again._ Because honestly…grape soda? Wilson walked in before the crushed pills had even dissolved fully. He hadn't seen anything suspicious in House sitting there, swishing around an open can of pop? Wilson wasn't an idiot, but House was starting to think that maybe the stress of oncology had prompted Wilson to take leave of his senses. Contrary to popular belief, House was a crappy liar. He always got that beguiling look stuck on his face, and Wilson damn well knew that. They would have to have a talk later about accepting drinks from creepy men in bars. Or creepy gimps in hotel rooms. Or best friends bearing grape soda. It was just safer for everyone involved if Wilson handled his own beverages from now on.

The seven dollar pretzels were a stroke of genius, though. Trust Wilson to fixate.

House ended up letting loose a grin anyway, because this _was _hilarious. The whole euthanasia speech thing, not so much. But drugging Wilson…priceless. It was just like old times! Now all he had to do was gather all the pants, and beat a hasty exit.

Five minutes later, a rumpled pile of Wilson's stuffy starched slacks lay waiting for House by the door. All he had to do now was get Wilson's jeans off of him. House could have worked them off, albeit with difficulty, without dragging Wilson from the chair, but he looked so damn uncomfortable hunched over and boneless with his hands dangling between his knees. House picked his lip and tried to look at something besides Wilson slumped over and face-planted in the table. The guy had that crick in his neck all the time; if House left him there, it would flare up, and he'd be miserable. Listening to Wilson whine was just annoying, so really, if he moved him, it was for House's own benefit. Not Wilson's. One does not perform acts of kindness in the middle of pranks designed to save a friend from his idiot self.

House sighed and hooked his cane on a free chair, then tossed Wilson's ridiculously practical wool coat into the corner as an act of pointless rebellion. Gently dumping Wilson on the floor would be easiest, but Wilson would probably bitch about that too. His back and all. Or the unsanitary nature of hotel room carpets, or… It was better to put him to bed. House glanced from Wilson to the beds far away on the other side of the suite, then back again. Wilson had better fucking appreciate this, after he was done being indignant and pissed off over the broken circle of trust bullshit he'd no doubt spout. House had to figure out which cracked self-help books Wilson had gotten into and burn them. For both their sakes.

"Better off without me, my ass," House muttered as he leaned over and slipped a hand around to Wilson's sternum. "Cuddy would be lucky. You have no idea what a pain in the ass it is, looking after you all the time. You're more self-destructive than I am; you just make it look fashionable." He heaved Wilson upright and got his other arm underneath one of Wilson's. Then he paused with Wilson's face smooshed in the crook of his elbow, his head lolling forward until his chin grazed his chest. That was sort of cute. Wilson really was too youngish for his own good.

Of course, Wilson chose that moment to ever so slowly slide down in his seat, a mish-mash of fluid limbs, and House scrabbled at him to keep from dropping him all over the floor and getting him stuck between the chair and the table legs. He managed to stop the downward trend, both his arms hooked under Wilson's from the side and clutching him to his stomach. Okay, this was awkward. If anybody walked in, like Cuddy maybe, or an old colleague meeting Wilson to walk down to the presentation together – did Wilson even have any old colleagues here? – they would find guilty-faced House standing there with a lump of ragdoll-Wilson sort of bunched up in his clutches with his arms all akimbo. Well, that couldn't happen.

House tried to pull him upright again, but the bastard was heavy. "No more ragu for you." But he noticed, now that he had his arms around the guy, that Wilson had lost a little weight lately. House really hoped that it had nothing to do with him. During his stay at Mayfield, Wilson should have gained weight without House around stealing his food.

Anyway, that was not the point. Wilson was warm and pliant in his grasp, and House tried not to reflect on the sweet scent of him, this close up. It was the way his couch smelled anytime after Wilson had slept on it – the way Wilson's apartment smelled. Sleepy Wilson in his dryer-softened, matched pajama sets. It was sort of relaxing, and heady. House bent down again to gather Wilson's torso in a firmer grip and ignored the soft groan that Wilson let out as House squeezed him and hoisted him upward. Just biology, people. Compressed diaphragm equals involuntary groan. Happens all the time with coma patients.

House sort of hopped in place to maintain his grip and then slowly slid Wilson from the chair, grunting as the guy's full deadweight dragged at his arms. This was a really bad idea. The bed was like miles away. House hobbled backwards, suppressing a wince at the added strain to his already bad leg, watching Wilson's legs unfold in his wake, feet falling outwards. Tassled loafers and jeans. Cute. Wilson even managed to look stuffy in play clothes.

Ten minutes later, House fell backwards onto the bed, dragging Wilson along for the ride because it was the easiest way to get him up there, and House really needed to get off his leg by then. He just laid there for a minute, Wilson's body draped all over him, their legs hanging off the bed in a tangle. Wilson gave an involuntary twitch and House held him tighter for some reason before he scowled at himself and shoved Wilson over to flop onto his stomach. It was a myoclonic jerk, asshole. Wilson doesn't need a hug for it.

The rough treatment made Wilson stir, though, and House froze, propped on one elbow in the process of making it back to his feet. Wilson griped something in that numb-tongued, too-loud voice common to deaf people, his mouth blocked by the bedspread, then subsided and started snoring instead.

House peered at him, then promptly wiped the silly-ass grin from his face as soon as he figured out why his cheeks felt stretchy all of a sudden. Wilson wasn't cute. He was a frigging man-bitch. Stay on point.

First things first, wallet. House dug in Wilson's back pocket and pulled it out, then idly flipped through it because Wilson should expect that from him. Twenty two dollars, good; House pocketed that while gazing aloofly at Wilson's sleeping, puffed cheek. Scuba diving certification card? What the fuck? That went in the trash can. Business card for Wilson's psychiatrist…old hat. House already knew who prescribed Wilson's anti-depressants. Oo! Pictures. He recognized Wilson's parents from the two Jimmy-weddings he'd attended. They looked good. Anniversary party? There was another photo of the annoying brother with the bigwig job, and his family, Wilson's niece and nephew/godson. House hated that guy; he was a pretentious jerk. But he left the photo in the wallet because he wasn't quite sure why Wilson never saw his brother's kids. A candid shot of Amber surfaced next…not going there.

House rummaged some more and came up with Wilson's oncology business cards, not one but three condoms (the slut), and a last tattered photo of a young man in graduation robes. He had Wilson's eyes, but none of Wilson's other features. Danny? House frowned at the young man and then silently slipped the picture back where he'd found it. None of his business, though he couldn't help being curious. Wilson had once sort of backhandedly-implied that House reminded him of Danny. That they would get along. House knew that Wilson hadn't said that because he could tell that House was losing it just like his brother had, but it still left him with a tiny pang whenever he thought about how no one, not even Wilson, had noticed him slowly leaving reality behind. Wilson should have seen it; the god damn bastard saw everything else.

House flipped the wallet closed and threw it on the nightstand, pleased to hear it knock something over as it hit. He didn't need to think about that crap. It served no purpose.

Okay, no more stalling. Pants. House regarded Wilson warily, quirking an eyebrow at the man's ass for no good reason. (_No good reason!_ Stop reading into shit. It's just because I might have to brush knuckles over it to get his damn pants off. Shut the hell up, self.) It wasn't even a pretty ass – it was a man-ass. It was like…barely there. House rolled his eyes and mumbled, "Enough, already," as he knelt down beside Wilson and rolled him over. His inner monologue was gonna have a field day with this.

Wilson hiccupped in his drugged slumber and then a lazy grin spread over his somnolent features before he sort of…chuckled? He stretched a second later, just a minimal elongation of his limbs without really shifting any of them, but…yeah.

House glared daggers at his erstwhile best friend. "Great. You think you're getting laid or something." He grabbed Wilson's belt and yanked the buckle open, and then for good measure, he mentioned, "I hate you."

Wilson just kept right on smiling.

"Queer."

House finished getting the belt open, then snatched at the button and zipper before he could wimp out. Wilson wasn't above showing up to give his presentation in casual wear, if that were all he had. If House wanted to stop him, he really did have to take every last pair of pants from the room. He would hide his own too, if there were any chance of Wilson fitting into them.

Okay, pants open: check. Now…now he had to actually touch things. Dammit. House puffed his cheeks out and gazed off toward the distant glass of tainted grape soda. Maybe braining Wilson and tying him to the chair would have been a better idea. He looked down at Wilson again, who seemed to have muddled his way back into complete unconsciousness, and then sighed. Just do it, House. Just get his pants, and leave.

House took hold of the waistband of Wilson's jeans with one hand and braced his bad knee on the bed so that he could lift Wilson's left hip with his other hand. He worked the denim down a few inches on that side, and then switched to Wilson's right. Lift, inch, repeat.

It was going great until House finally got the denim bunched down underneath the swell of Wilson's ass. Then Wilson twitched again, sucked in a gurgly little drugged breath, and sort of slurred, "Haowzzz?"

That sounded like House's name. He froze, which unfortunately left one hand curled under Wilson's left butt cheek, and the other tugging at Wilson's jeans where they lay scrunched around his lower pelvis. "Um."

"Hhhaow…ss…Whhudderyoo doooin?"

"Nothing." Oh right, like that tone of voice ever fooled anyone. Moron. "You're dreaming."

"I'm in…no, yoooooo drugg'd meh."

"Yeah," House agreed, trying for flippant. He ever so casually removed his hand from Wilson's buttocks. "So this is just a drug-induced dream."

"Oh." Wilson drew in a deep breath and then expelled the whole thing in a harsh sigh, his eyes still closed, mouth slack, dopey. "Kay, then. You juss…hmm." Wilson purred suddenly, and then mumbled, "S'good."

House narrowed his eyes and simultaneously quirked one eyebrow, suspicious. "_What's_ good?"

Wilson's stupid grin spread out across his face, irritating dimples and all, and he did _not_ giggle even if it sort of sounded that way. "Yer takin' off mah pants."

"Oh my god." House just rolled his eyes and unhanded him altogether. "Pervert." He stalk-limped back into the main area of the suite, leaning on walls and furniture as he went, then carefully bent down to retrieve his cane. After stretching out his leg for a moment, House grabbed the rest of the grape soda and then stomped back to Wilson, in as much as he was capable of stomping. "You need more of this. Three girly-ass sips isn't enough to knock you out."

Wilson mumbled something about cottonmouth and clumsied a hand up to House's wrist, as if he really thought he were coordinated enough to help guide the glass to his own lips, the twit.

House smirked as Wilson smacked his lips and flopped back, boneless. "God, you're easy." He set the now empty glass on the nightstand, hesitated, and then went ahead and thumbed a drop of grape soda off the edge of Wilson's mouth, where his tongue was apparently unable to reach. Wilson would never know; he was too stoned.

"Mmm." Wilson smiled sleepily and turned his head as if he intended to do something to House's thumb. Bite it, maybe, except he looked way too content for a random act of mastication. Then all of the happiness bled from Wilson's features and he blinked up at House from glassy and yet strangely lucid eyes. "Why don' you like me?"

House pulled back and cocked his head to one side. "I like you just fine."

Wilson breathed out heavily and fixed a wobbly, uneven gaze on the window overlooking their room's balcony.

"Oh, crap; you're getting morose." House rolled his eyes and then reached down to tug at Wilson's jeans again. "No more roofies for you."

Wilson startled suddenly, and then grabbed a handful of his pants to keep them where they were. "M'not easy!" Of course, all drugged up like that, righteous anger tended to fizzle out into adorable petulance.

House snorted. "Really? Because it only took one drink to get into your pants."

Bleary processing took place somewhere in Wilson's head. "Not cheap either." His voice cracked over _cheap_, and Wilson furrowed his brow. "Cheap. Cheeeeeeeee-puh. Chee – House. Leggo a'my pants."

"No can do, sport. It's nappy time for you."

"They were 'spensive," Wilson argued.

"What were, your pants? I'll reimburse you for them."

Wilson opened his mouth to respond, then got distracted with trying to work up a bit of saliva.

House arched an eyebrow. "Okay, then." He disentangled Wilson's hand from his jeans and set it on his stomach with a friendly pat for good measure. "Hold onto that instead. You don't want me to get your shirt too, do you?"

Wilson looked at House, and then made a comical attempt to peer down his nose at where his hand rested over his navel. His eyes crossed in the process. "No. It's _my_ belly button. You can't have that." Then he sighed and sank back, the second dose of sedatives taking hold. "Ya know…I shood at leas' getta kiss outuv it. S'my pants…Take a girlz' pants, they getta kiss."

House stopped again. He'd gotten Wilson's jeans down around his knees, nearly scot free. "Um. You're not a girl."

"Gender equally…equaleditty…gen…yooknowwhatImean." Wilson flopped a hand, his voice all breathy and fading fast. "S'only fair."

"Right," House drawled. He gazed dubiously at Wilson's form stretched like liquid on the bed in front of him. It looked like he'd passed out again, thank the never-present gods, so House reached for the waist band of Wilson's jeans, determined to finish what he'd started so that he could get the hell out of here and leave pantless Wilson in peace.

Wilson didn't move right away, so House yanked a little harder to get the denim down over Wilson's ridiculously knobby knees. Suddenly, Wilson wasn't quite so unconscious anymore. He grunted, sounding surprised or irritated or both, and then grabbed House's wrist in an iron grip. House stumbled at the unexpected touch, and then yanked his hand away in an instinctive bid to recoil. Wilson held fast, however, and when he pulled House's wrist back, it upset his balance. His bad leg hit the edge of the bed and folded, and before House knew it, he had toppled down on top of Wilson in a mess of poorly placed elbows.

Wilson's eyelids sank and then widened, and finally closed to slits. "I jus'said. Not gettin' my pants fer free."

"You are _really_ stoned, Wilson." House got one elbow braced on the mattress, but Wilson still had hold of his other wrist, and he didn't seem inclined to let go. The abrupt awareness of proximity struck House like a sledgehammer to the gut. He could see the tiny chicken pox scar on Wilson's jaw line, count the pores on his nose, visually trace a spidery vein up through the white of Wilson's lazy eye…effervescent grape-tinged breath in his face…and warm, warm…good lord, Wilson was warm. His fingers practically seared House's skin where they squeezed his wrist hard enough that House swore he couldn't feel his fingers. House tensed just a little and lifted his chin, drawing back in expression more than physically so. "Wilson…" Low, dark warning. Don't push it, Wilson. Don't. "Don't."

Wilson's eyes wobbled a little bit in their sockets, too penetrating for a man pumped full of industrial strength sedatives. Finally, he let his fingers slip from House's wrist, slumping back with an exhausted sigh as House levered himself upright while trying to hide just how desperate he was to get off of Wilson. With his eyes closed, Wilson somehow managed to look disappointed and resigned as he murmured, "You're a coward, House."

House shoved the rest of the way to his feet and then stumbled back on one good leg, balance compromised, his arm flung out to catch himself against the wall. He came to a hopping stop, eyes wider than they should have been, and stared at Wilson's gently rising chest. Inhale, exhale, in unison. Wilson was actually out this time, down for the count, drugged up to his eyeballs, mouth open just enough to reveal the underline of his teeth and a flash of pink tongue. He would probably stay that way for the next hour or two, long enough for House to abscond with his speech and ruin Wilson's stupid impulse to ruin himself.

House closed back in slowly, like a deer approaching a sleeping lion. Experimentally, he grasped Wilson's ankle and tugged at the loafer; it came off without a hitch, so House dropped Wilson's foot and removed his other shoe as well. The jeans slid off easily now that Wilson wasn't wriggling around and taunting him, and House limped away from the bed to dump them beside the door with the rest of Wilson's pants. Before he left, House snuck back to the bed and rolled Wilson over onto his stomach, arranging his limbs in an approximation of the position he normally slept in.

Then House hesitated, his hand resting on Wilson's shoulder, dry warmth suffusing his own skin. He leaned down, jittery and ready to flee at the first sign of waking, but Wilson snored lightly on, oblivious. Innocent. "We're both cowards," House told him. Corrected him, really, but who was keeping score? Then he pressed his lips to the corner of Wilson's mouth, perfectly chaste, and withdrew, ruffling Wilson's hair as he backed away. "Night, Wilson."


End file.
